If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.

 

 My apologies to dog lovers. My father is one. My friend Amy is one. While I respect their choice of companion animal and have nothing against canines in general, a dog is just not right for me at this time. 

Do you like those online quizzes? You know, the kind that claim to analyze your personality based on your favorite cartoon character, the color you paint your toenails, or the shape of your earlobes?

I stumbled upon a quiz that proposed to tell me what kind of writer I am, based on my chosen pet. Having recently adopted Steve, a leopard gecko of my very own, I was intrigued.

I learned that I “require solitude. You are a self-sufficient person and independent thinker. You are a mysterious mix of rebelliousness and grace with an engaging touch of slime. Your hidden talent is the ability to change and reinvent yourself easily. You write best when you’re uninterrupted and undisturbed for longer periods of time. Your spouse, family, and friends think they have you pegged, but when you shed your skin, you baffle them once again.”

That analysis is frighteningly accurate. Despite my larger-than-average family size, I do require solitude. That’s why access to the personal pink paradise that I call my office is by invitation only. I agree that I’m self-sufficient and independent, which probably accounts for the sometimes bewildered expression in My Husband’s eyes. Graceful, rebellious, and slimy . . . they’re all “me” on occasion. And I certainly do write best when I’m “uninterrupted and undisturbed for longer periods of time”, which explains why it’s been a month since I last posted anything on my poor, neglected blog.

Still, I think choosing Steve as a pet is more indicative of the stage I am in my life than my overall personality. I considered a dog or a cat and quickly dismissed the traditional companion animal.  As the mother of six kids, I just don’t need something else that tries to crawl up in my lap when I sit down.

I wouldn’t welcome a pet who wakes me to go potty, crowds me out of my bed, or vomits on the carpet. I have children who do all that. While I’ll gladly give up some sleep for my own flesh and blood, I fear the same behavior from something furry and four-legged would have me planning a trip to the nearest pound.

Wandering the pet store, in search of an animal to add some life to my office space, I rejected the obvious choices one by one. Having battled mice in my kitchen cupboards on a number of occasions, I don’t want any small, sharp-toothed creatures that go scritch-scritch-scritch in the night. Proceeding to the more exotic pets, I decided that tarantulas are featured in too many horror movies. Hermit crabs are too small to be interesting, and turtles were unavailable. Being an ancestor of Eve, I didn’t even consider the yellow-eyed snake. I was immediately attracted to the friendly-looking gecko with a smile on his face.

I’m pleased with  my choice. I can nurture and interact with Steve . . . when I have time. Adult geckos don’t even eat every day. (Why couldn’t I share THAT particular attribute?) I took great delight in setting up the perfect habitat for him, much as I enjoy decorating my own living space. As a gesture of love, I recently bought him half of a coconut shell, with a door cut in it. When he ventured inside and poked his head out, I felt as fulfilled as most people do when witnessing their canine friend’s excitement over a new squeaky toy.

Geckos can live fifteen years. With luck, I could still be hunting live bugs as a special treat for Steve while the other senior citizens are out walking their dogs.

So, fellow bloggers, what kind of writer are YOU?

http://www.writingontherun.com/quiz.html